Arctic Storm Rising

Eleven

Late in the afternoon, with the sun already low on the southwest horizon, a regularly scheduled Beechcraft 1900D twin-engine turboprop came in from the east on its final approach to the island’s airport. Streamers of freshly fallen snow sprayed out from under its landing gear when it touched down. The pilot, used to winter flying in northern Alaska, slipped the props into beta, carefully used reverse thrust until his forward vision was being affected by blowing snow, then applied his brakes gently to avoid sliding off onto the tundra. Carefully, he tested their action on the slick surface as his aircraft rolled down the runway, gradually increasing his pressure on the pedals to decelerate slowly and steadily. After the turboprop came to a complete stop, it turned through a complete circle and taxied over to a small metal shed and gravel-topped parking apron that were the tiny airport’s only permanent facilities.

Just four passengers deplaned from the Beechcraft, while its crew unloaded a few bags, boxes, and bundles of mail and other general cargo destined for Kaktovik and the Barter Island radar station. They were all lean, fit-looking men shielded against the harsh weather by colorful ski parkas and dark snow pants. Each man carried a large duffel bag and a small overnight backpack.

The town’s yellow airport bus was already parked just off the apron with its engine running to provide heat for the driver, a middle-aged man with graying hair and a broad, weathered face. His vaguely Asiatic features marked him as one of the local Inuits. Smiling genially, he climbed down off the bus to help his passengers load their heavy luggage. “Don’t usually get many tourists up here at this time of year,” he commented politely. “The polar bears are all back north on the pack ice, and all we got otherwise is a whole lot of nothing much to see. Unless you got a thing for whale bones. Got a lot of them lying around in one big heap.”

They all smiled ruefully. “As a matter of fact, that bone mound is why we’re here,” one of them explained. “We work for Fish and Wildlife and someone at headquarters back in D.C. wants an updated survey to pick up any significant changes from last season.”

The bus driver nodded at that. Among its many other responsibilities, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service managed the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, which included Barter Island. “Makes sense to map it out now, I guess,” he allowed. “While the bears aren’t around. They get seriously territorial when they’re scavenging on those bones and scraps of spoiled blubber and skin.”

Apparently satisfied with their stated reason for visiting the island, he climbed back aboard the bus and waited while his handful of passengers settled themselves. Then he put the vehicle in gear and drove off toward town. Kaktovik had two small hotels and a bed-and-breakfast inn. At this time of the year, any of them would be grateful to have paying guests, even at a reduced government rate.

Several hours later, wearing a white camouflage smock over his cold weather gear, Captain Nick Flynn crouched behind a row of rusting, ice-covered oil drums on the outskirts of Kaktovik. This stretch of waste ground behind the town was covered with tarpaulin-sheathed whale boats, old cars up on blocks, abandoned shipping containers, and other junk. Clouds covered the night sky, and, except for a few lights shining among the town’s ramshackle houses and buildings, it was pitch-dark. The temperature was well below zero. Despite his heavy clothing, his bones ached with cold, and he had to lock his jaws shut to keep his teeth from chattering. Every minute spent motionless here in the dark robbed him of precious body heat, but even the slightest movement could be fatal to his plans.

“Comanche Six, this is Comanche One,” Senior Airman Mark Mitchell’s voice said quietly through his radio earpiece. There was an undercurrent of excitement in the young radioman’s voice. “I think the balloon is going up, sir. We just got a flash message from the RAOC. They report that our radar here is being jammed.”

“Copy that,” Flynn replied, suddenly feeling warmer. The Regional Air Operations Center was located hundreds of miles south at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. It was an underground command and communications center crammed full of sophisticated computers and displays. Every piece of data gathered by the North Warning System air defense radars lining Alaska’s thousands of miles of frontier was fed straight back to the RAOC, where trained specialists sorted the wheat from the chaff — deciding which unidentified air contacts were genuine and which were nothing more than flocks of migratory birds or wind-driven ice crystals. So the center’s report that signals from Barter Island’s long-range radar were being turned into electronic hash was a sure sign of imminent trouble. “All Comanches, this is Six,” he said into his mike. “Stand by. Don your owl eyes and scan your sectors.”

Disciplined acknowledgments from the five two-man teams he’d deployed earlier that evening flooded smoothly over the radio. He felt a moment’s pride. The soldiers and airmen of his small security team still had some rough edges that needed sanding, but the intensive physical and tactical training he and Andy Takirak had put them through was paying off now. And right when it mattered most.

Flynn opened an insulated pack, pulled out a pair of night vision goggles, and put them on. In the Arctic, extreme cold depleted batteries with frightening speed, which was why it was essential to keep any electronic equipment as warm as possible until it was really needed. He switched the goggles on. Instantly, the world around him brightened into a monochrome vista that was almost as clear as natural daylight. Then he settled back to keep watch over his own chosen sector.

It shouldn’t be long now, he thought calmly. That radar jamming had to be a trigger for some other enemy action.

Sure enough, only moments later, he spotted four figures as they slid cautiously around the corner of a small hotel about a hundred yards from his position. All four wore bulky equipment packs and carried weapons in their hands. “Hostiles in view,” he whispered into his mike. “They’re moving into Sector Bravo. Stand by.”

Again, quiet responses ghosted through his radio earpiece.

Flynn crouched lower, watching closely while the four armed men drew nearer to his hiding place. They were moving along a bearing that would take them directly to the radar station, only a few hundred yards away across the tundra.

Sixty yards. Forty. Twenty.

Close enough, he decided, taking a deep breath. Letting it out in a whoosh, he reared up from behind the oil drums and leveled his weapon, sighting on the lead figure. “Now, Comanches! Hit ’em!” he shouted.

Flynn squeezed the trigger. As his weapon bucked backward with a muffled cough, he heard the same sound repeated from other scattered points around the iced-over junkyard, mixed in with excited whoops and yells.

Caught by surprise and completely out in the open, the four hostiles rocked under sudden, splattering impacts and went down in the snow. All around them, more rounds kicked up snow in brief spurts.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Flynn ordered. Smiling now, he flipped up his night vision goggles. “Y’all okay out there?” he called to the prone figures.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” a disgusted voice replied. “Pink paint? You hit us with fucking pink paint?”

Flynn hefted his paintball gun. “Sorry, guys,” he said with an even bigger grin. “MILES gear freezes up in this climate.” Like all battery-powered devices, the laser weapons and target sensors that were used in the U.S. military’s Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System drained fast in subzero temperatures. “So we had to improvise a little.”

Later, back in the warmth of the radar station’s rec room, Flynn apologized again to their disgruntled would-be attackers. They were U.S. Army Green Berets, part of the First Special Forces Group based at Fort Lewis in Washington State. Their parkas, ski masks, and snow pants were now stained bright pink by multiple paintball hits.

“I really wanted blue or even red ammunition,” he told them. “But all the store down at Fairbanks had in stock was pink.”

“Neon pink,” the senior Green Beret noncom pointed out, still sounding aggrieved.

Flynn nodded, firmly controlling his own urge to laugh. “Yeah, but you’ve got to admit, it sure stands out in the dark.”

The Special Forces sergeant looked down at himself for a moment. A wry smile twitched at the side of his hard-bitten face. “I can’t deny that, sir.” He shrugged. “What I don’t quite get is how you tumbled to us so fast.”

Flynn could understand the other man’s dismay. Tonight’s readiness exercise had been cooked up by overly eager staff officers down at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. He’d been given a heads-up to get ready for a training drill, but nothing more. He certainly hadn’t been warned about the possibility of a surprise attack on Barter Island by “Spetsnaz” commandos infiltrating the area disguised as American civilians. That “jamming” attack reported against the radar was a piece of misdirection intended to draw his security team out of position by suggesting the Russians planned an airborne drop from the north, from across the frozen Arctic Ocean. Instead, the highly trained Green Beret raiding party had run head-on into the buzz saw of Flynn’s carefully planned ambush… winding up “dead” in the snow in seconds.

“Well, to be honest, I cheated,” he explained. “I figured someone might try to secretly slip an assault force into Kaktovik ahead of time, so I took a few precautions of my own.”

“Like what?” the Green Beret wondered.

In answer, Flynn raised his voice slightly. “Sergeant Takirak? Would you come in here for a second, please?”

Obeying, the National Guard sergeant entered the rec room. Although he was now back in uniform, the four Special Forces soldiers recognized him immediately. They shook their heads in disbelief.

“Ah, shit,” one muttered. “The goddamned bus driver.”

“Yep.” Flynn nodded, smiling openly now. “I posted Andy at the airport to keep us in the loop on any new arrivals.” He looked his paintball-stained guests over with a considering eye. “Particularly any fit, military-aged men. Fake Fish and Wildlife badges or not.”

“Crap. No wonder you blew us away,” the senior Green Beret noncom said, sounding even more disgusted. Flynn nodded again.

Ruefully, the Special Forces sergeant shook his head. “Well, sir, I’ve got to admit that you and your boys sure kicked our asses.” Then he looked around the rec room, taking in its worn furnishings, old movie posters peeling off the insulated walls, and the faint smell of too many men crammed together in living quarters that weren’t quite big enough. Outside, the wind rose to a howling pitch, shrieking through the guy wires supporting the radar platform and rattling loose pieces of metal siding. “On the other hand, I got a feeling tonight’s show might just be the high point of excitement around here for the next couple of months.”

Thinking about the fast-approaching and seemingly endless Arctic winter nights, Flynn had to concede that was probably true.